


Fuck(!) Divine Intervention

by hati_skoll



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Crack, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Spoilers, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hati_skoll/pseuds/hati_skoll
Summary: "The Chosen King is pregnant," Somnus Lucis Caelum, the Founder King, the Mystic, the first in the very, very long line of Lucis Caelums, remarks – peering across the veil into the land of the living.To Regis' credit, he's been dealing with all these… complaints from his ancestors, about his son's apparent 'inadequacies', so he first defaults to his standard answer of, "I think Noctis will do perfectly fine with his brothers at his side-" before stopping short, and going, "I beg your pardon?"





	1. Chapter 1

"The Chosen King is pregnant," Somnus Lucis Caelum, the Founder King, the Mystic, the first in the very, very long line of Lucis Caelums, remarks – peering across the veil into the land of the living.

To Regis' credit, he's been dealing with all these… complaints from his ancestors, about his son's apparent 'inadequacies', so he first defaults to his standard answer of, "I think Noctis will do perfectly fine with his brothers at his side-" before stopping short, and going, "I beg your pardon?"

"As you should, for raising your son a harlot," someone snipes from the back.

"Oh, quit your whining, the boy's just sowing his seeds of youth," another king – Regis thinks he's supposed to be The Wanderer – huffs.

Tonitrus the Fierce laughs – a cheerful, booming sort of sound, and announces, "I reckon he's being ploughed more than he's sowing seeds."

And Regis really, _really_ doesn't need to know that. He doesn't. As far as he's concerned, his little boy is a sweet, sleepy, rather contrary and sullen angel, who isn't taking his shield and advisor up the arse, simultaneously – which is exactly what Noctis is doing at the moment, Regis realises as he looks into the veil. He now knows far too much about his son's sex life than he ever cares to. But back to the matter at hand…"He can't be pregnant. He's a boy."

There is the slightest trace of chagrin in the set of Somnus' impressive pauldrons. The Founder King then intones, "There has been an unfortunate miscommunication amongst the Sixes who've bestowed their blessings."

"They… impregnated him?"

"They gave him a functioning womb," Somnus says, evidently trying not to sigh, "And a child. His lover's child, although I'm not particularly certain whose seed has taken root amongst the trio he beds. Bahamut has promised to have a word with his fellow astrals."

"That's a bit like trying to erect a wall after the Nifs are in, if you ask me," Tonitrus chuckles. And Regis knows the man is just trying to defuse the mounting tension, but it's not his son who's suddenly pregnant. His _son_ is _pregnant_ – there are so many things wrong with that sentence, Regis doesn't even know how to begin processing it.

Noctis, still blissfully unaware of his pregnancy, is clinging desperately onto his advisor while his shield pounds into him from behind, a litany of "Iggyiggyiggy" falling from his swollen red lips, before Ignis – calm, collected, reserved, unruffled, probably took a vow of celibacy or something, Regis' always assumed – claims his mouth in an obscenely wet kiss. Apparently the advisor's failing eyesight is no impediment to bedroom romps, which speaks of a decent amount of experimentation with sensory deprivation. _But,_ Regis shudders, _it's best to leave that thought unfinished_.

"Fuck that's hot," Gladiolus growls.

"The lad's right," Tonitrus says.

And Regis just wants to wash out his eyeballs. And ears. And brain. Perhaps with a convenient swish of the oracle's sceptre, hm? A little harmless memory tinkering? He's not sure how that'll work on a non-corporeal spirit, but he's certainly game to try. "I believe we should give the boys some privacy," he suggests, a little desperately.

"It's our eternal duty to keep a watchful eye over the line of Lucis," someone objects.

"Surely that doesn't mean spying on them in flagrante," Regis balks, "How long has this been going on? Did every one of us have an audience when we were doing our part in the marital bed?"

Crepera the Rogue snorts. "Not to worry, son. We didn't spend more than five minutes checking in on you when you were putting your sword into the armiger. Had we spent any longer, we'd be fast sleep, truth be told. Horizontal on a bed does not an exciting performance make."

"Be glad that Noctis has not inherited your lack of creativity between the sheets," Tonitrus says sagely.

Regis makes a sound that can only be described as an affronted squawk, just as his great-great-great-to-the-nth-degree-grandfather, the first of his line, the Founder King gives him a placating pat on the shoulder, saying with an air of long-suffering resignation, "You need only suffer a few more years with this lot, I have endured for centuries."

-

When Gladiolus gets up close and personal with Noctis on the train, spitting fire and unpalatable truths, Regis feels a little sorry for his son, but he understands Noctis needs… a gentle push in the right direction. Although, he isn't quite sure if Gladiolus is shoving his son down into the smouldering pits of the Rock of Ravatogh instead. Well, he gets point for trying. Clarus has never had any patience for Regis' moods either, back when they were young, hot-headed and thought themselves invincible.

So it isn't a surprise that Gladiolus is following his father's footsteps, with his dismal choice of words. Noctis is snapping back in indignation, although Regis knows it's no more than a mask for his hurt and hopeless self-blaming. His son has a terrible tendency of manfully attempting to hold meteor-sized burdens on his slight shoulders. Nevertheless, he trusts the boys to pull through together. He's proud of how far they've come.

Of course, his moment of fond introspection is rudely interrupted when one of the past kings cheerfully announces, "I wager they are due for an enthusiastic bout of angry train sex."

Regis sighs as another of his ancestors – truly, they are entirely too invested in Noctis' sexual proclivities – shouts, "Hear! Hear!"

"Well, I wager Gladiolus is about to be banished to the couch," another – possibly the Tall, Regis thinks, because he _is_ so very tall – says, "Noctis looks to be in no mood to take that brute between his thighs."

"I agree. The boy doesn't look likely to spread his legs when he's mad," says Tonitrus.

And that's how the great and noble kings of Lucis end up pointlessly and irrevocably divided, staring hard at each other across the yawning chasm of angst-riddled smut versus sweet, reconciliation fluff. Even Somnus is partaking in the madness, Regis notes, and he's standing on the side of _angry hate-sex_.

"Regis, what do you say?" Tonitrus booms.

"Neither," Regis says, "I'm not making ridiculous speculations on my son's relationship with his…" boyfriends, "retinue."

The boys are still arguing and Gladiolus has a fist in Noctis' shirt, all of the Lucii are on the edge of their seats, and then Noctis abruptly doubles up, his already fair complexion going sheet-white. Prompto jumps up from his seat immediately, pushing at Gladiolus and telling him to, "Stop it!" and Gladiolus actually listens, despite his blustering temper. Of course he does, Noctis looks awful, and Regis watches as Gladiolus' anger gives way to earnest concern.

"What's wrong?" Ignis asks, unable to see but more than able to intuit.

"Noct's sick," Prompto replies, "Paper bag, paper bag," miraculously, they've some put away in the armiger, "Here you go, buddy."

Noctis retches spectacularly. He retches and retches, for a rather worrying length of time, enough to fill two bags before he's awkwardly shepherded off to the train's toilets two carriages down. Prompto guides him with a steady hand on the small of his back, while Gladiolus and Ignis try to settle back into their seats with a modicum of composure, even though everyone's clearly too high-strung to function.

Regis frowns uneasily, turning from the veil only when Tonitrus nudges him in the side, hoping for a word of wisdom from his ancestor. Alas, the large, laughing warrior of a king only offers, "Seems like you just won the wager. Your boy's got his men wrapped around his pinky, eh?"

Regis doesn't know if spirits can cry, but his ghostly tear ducts are certainly trying.

-

The morning sickness doesn't go away for Noctis. Regis hovers uncomfortably at the veil, as his son empties his breakfast into the pond at the edge of Plantagh Haven. Noct is once again pale and sickly, and heartaches transcend human mortality, Regis finds. His fingers itch to brush Noctis' damp, unkempt bangs away from his clammy forehead – is no one going to assist his son when he's so clearly vulnerable? Regis stamps down an unwarranted flare of irritation.

The boys have spent the better part of yesterday running around the rusty, decrepit ruins of Fodina Caestino, inhaling its toxic fumes, putting Noctis and his unborn child at risk – not that they knew about the risk, because none of them were actually aware of Noctis' yet-to-be-apparent, gods-blessed pregnancy. It was _frustrating_ , incredibly so.

"Ate something that disagreed with your stomach?" Prompto asks, once Noctis is done.

"Don't think so," Noctis shakes his head, "We all had cup noodles for dinner, and you guys seem fine. Might be a flu bug, I guess."

Ignis and Gladiolus – well, mostly Gladiolus – have the majority of their camping equipment stored away when Noctis and Prompto make their way back. Ignis nods at them, sort of, he's slightly off by a few degrees to the right. "Then we ought to locate the royal tomb doubly fast and leave this place, less Noctis is weakened further by the toxicity in the environment."

"It's fine, specs. I'm fine."

"Yeah, don't push yourself, Iggy," Prompto chimes in.

Ignis frowns in barely concealed dissatisfaction, and Regis is well familiar with that stubborn set of the Scientia jawline. Unsurprisingly, Ignis tries valiantly to pick up his pace following that conversation, which leads to an increasing number of slip-ups, an exceedingly distraught Prompto, an especially twitchy Gladiolus and a rapidly spiralling-in-guilt Noctis. Regis stares helplessly into the veil, hands in fists as he watches the boys stumble. The hormonal mood swings that come with pregnancy only aggravate an already charged situation, and none of Noctis' friends are in the right frame of mind to help him.

"Can we not do anything?" Regis asks.

"The gods have tasked us only to wait and watch," Somnus replies, "It is both a gift and a curse for the line of Lucis."

"We must at least tell Noctis of his condition."

"And we shall, when he puts on his ring," Somnus says, "Only then can we speak with him. But for now, we wait and watch and keep our faith in the Chosen King."

Regis has plenty of faith in his son. He knows Noctis is strong and resolute, mulish to a fault, really. He'll not waver from the path he walks, even though Regis has wished for years that the path laid out for Noctis by the astrals would be less a trial of loss, torment and sacrifice. And now the Sixes have added utterly unnecessary weights around Noctis' ankles, because of a… a _miscommunication_.

It's extraordinarily hard to watch Noctis face down the Malboro, with its multiple rows of sharp, pointy teeth, and its odious, far-reaching tentacles. The boys are all over the place, and it pains Regis to see them so lacking in their usual synergy. Still, he keeps his eye on the veil, not turning away even for a second. And Ignis – brilliant, _brilliant_ Ignis – eventually pulls through for his friends, casting an inferno on the largest, blasted beast, weakening it tremendously for the rest to finish it off.

The boys pile into the main elevator after they've claimed their prize from the tomb. Noctis dry-heaves as the dingy old box creaks and rattles its way up the metal shaft. There's a sheen of cold sweat over his face, even though he's been perfectly healthy for most of the day, and his friends are crowding him as mama chocobos are wont to do over a weakly trilling chick.

"Think you can keep a potion down, princess?" Gladiolus asks.

Ignis taps the floor with his cane, a little impatiently. "I'm afraid potions and elixirs are ineffective against upset stomachs. Noct needs a doctor."

"You think there's any in Cartanica?" Prompto wrinkles his nose, "The place looks pretty deserted to me."

Regis wants to grab the veil by its wispy, transient fabric, give it a good, hard shake and yell "He's pregnant!" But that'll only be terribly undignified and the boys won't be able to hear him anyway.

Noctis stumbles out of the lift surrounded by his friends, then straightens, his face gaining colour now that the vomiting spell has passed. "Huh. It's probably just the air down there. I feel better already."

"You sure, buddy?" Prompto presses their foreheads together for a moment before Noctis waves him away.

"Yeah," Noctis snorts and warps ahead, "Dibs on the lower bunk!"

"No fair!" Prompto cries, stopping short a second later, "Wait, shouldn't it be the upper bunk?"

Noctis glances over his shoulder, smirk plastered on his lips. "Not if you wanna ride Gladio comfortably. I mean, unless you're alright with bashing your brains out on the ceiling?"

"He's got a point," Gladiolus chuckles, just as Ignis protests with a chastising, "Mind your language in public, Noctis!"

Regis sighs as the boys scramble for the train's cabins. Predictably, one of the other Lucii begins another round of betting on the number of orgasms the Chosen King can wrangle from his evidently exhausted, but nonetheless eager retinue. Amidst the calls of "Five!", "No, six!", "You lot are underestimating our Chosen King, I say seven!", the boys are disrobing haphazardly – Ignis is attempting to pick up after them, but Noctis is yanking on his advisor's belt rather petulantly. Prompto snaps a photo just as Ignis is tipped off-balance and falls face-first into Noctis' crotch.

The boys laugh.

"No," Regis says to the rowdy circle of Lucian kings, waiting for his ancestors to fall silent before he continues, "I do believe they'll go for fifteen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, they won't be sending any great stone dragons to watch over Noctis. [Tumblr](http://hati-skoll.tumblr.com/post/172160392227/fuck-divine-intervention-13).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ardyn's always assumed he was starring in a tragedy.

The astrals may denounce him an unruly, _ungrateful_ bastard – and they're well entitled to their _wrong and completely hypocritical_ opinions – but let it never be said that Ardyn Izunia (previously Lucis Caelum) is a sad, boring dullard of a villain.

If there's any bigger insult to the way they've ruthlessly stripped him of his birth right and cast him aside as one would soiled diapers, it'll be to pigeonhole him in the role of the pathetic, maniacal incarnation of pure evil, bent on total destruction for no reason other than just that. How trite. How mundane. How dreadfully _lazy_.

No, Ardyn's had centuries, twenty of them actually, to help that stuffy prick Bahamut set the stage for a brilliant grand finale. It will be _glorious_ , a beautiful, tragic swan-song that'll go down the ages. But then _of course_ , it only takes the gods ten minutes to derail the carefully crafted climax he's been meticulously planning for ten _years_.

"I see you're still struggling with human colloquialisms, my dear," Ardyn says, when Shiva appears in his office on the top floor of Zegnautus Keep, unannounced – no appreciation for locked doors, that goddess, "There's no shame in that, I consider modern language rather tricky myself. But I'm sure you meant to say, 'it's a pregnant moment', as opposed to 'he's pregnant'."

Shiva narrows her eyes at him, slighted by the correction no doubt.

Ardyn continues. "You see, the former would mean that you are emotionally invested in the outcome of your little King's pathetic struggling. And the latter would mean-"

"He is with child," Shiva says.

"Well, yes," Ardyn waits for Shiva to tell him he's right, waits for her to avail him with divine knowledge of whatever has brought her to his little shoebox of an office and when none of that is forthcoming, he resists the urge to stamp his foot. "He is a _boy_. _How_ is he with child?"

"The oracle-"

"Put a baby in him?" It must be Jester's Day; the astrals must be playing an awfully tasteless joke on him, there must be some other reason for Shiva's visit other than the ludicrous notion that the Chosen King is pregnant, "I've always been under the impression that _females_ carried the offspring."

"I'm afraid my brethren misconstrued Lunafreya's intentions when she prayed for life."

"They thought she wanted her husband-to-be pregnant," Ardyn says, voice uncharacteristically flat.

"By his trio of lovers, yes, you can see how the vague wording allows room for misinterpretation."

No, no he doesn't see how the vague wording allows room for misinterpretation, not when Noctis is, for all intents and purposes, a _boy_ – as in _male_ , as in lacking the right organ for childbearing purposes hereafter referred to as a _womb_.

Shiva continues talking, perfectly reasonably as if the gods haven't just made the most colossal, imbecilic gaffe known to Eos in the past five centuries – only rivalled by the time one of Ardyn's own grandnephews thought it possible to drink the sea dry (he wonders how they've managed to keep their rule for so long). "I understand your agenda involves delivering the Chosen King to the crystal. Should you wish to see your plans to fruition, it would be wise to keep in mind that he is… less sturdy than you might have imagined."

"Can't you… magic the foetus away?"

"Not at the moment," Shiva says, "Not without great risk to the Chosen King."

And with that she vanishes. Without so much as a by your leave. How unspeakably _rude_. But then the gods were never one for niceties.

Right scoundrels they were, going around impregnating people and leaving others to deal with the repercussions, like… like deadbeat fathers! Oh, that was a thought. Ardyn almost feels sorry for his great-grandnephew. He may even be developing some unwilling sense of solidarity, since they're both being made to host foreign, life-draining entities in their bastardised bodies.

Between the two of them, they've a wailing bundle of petrifying, nightmarish terrors and… a fairly decent cacophony of daemons.

Ardyn is very nearly certain that Noctis has drawn the shorter stick on that count.

-

He spends the next couple of days corralling his scourge-infected and magitek underlings in the facility, because it won't do to have the Chosen King… expire from shock or whatever it was expectant fathers do.

It's a terrible pain, to have to rework his intricately planned masterpiece almost in entirety, but needs must. The Snagas will almost definitely have to go – they're notoriously dreadful at listening to instructions. There's a possible correlation with their scourge-shrunk stature and diminutive brain size, although there hasn't been enough research in the area to prove the theory factually sound.

He's right in the midst of sending those ankle-biters out when he's rudely reminded that Aldercapt and Ravus are inconsiderate buffoons who have the absolute worst timing ever. An altercation in the throne room, Shiva's disproportionate tits, on a _weekend_? They're not even paid for overtime!

Aldercapt sends Ravus flying a few stories down, just before Ardyn arrives on scene. The old man always had a flair for cheap theatrics, nothing as polished as the beautiful punchlines Ardyn delivers. But one can hardly expect perfection from a mere mortal, especially so deluded a one. Ravus is struggling to stand as Ardyn approaches him. And Ardyn briefly considers sticking to his original plan of ending the Oracle's line, but… the Chosen is now pregnant, and unfortunately, Ravus may still be of some use.

"At last you've arrived Noctis," Ravus says as Ardyn draws near. Hm, not very lucid, he's probably lost one too many brain cell in that fall. Maybe Ardyn ought to kill him after all. Let that annoying brat of a great-grandnephew find his almost-brother-in-law's corpse.

Ardyn calls a blade to his hand, before remembering that mood swings may be debilitating for pregnant mothers according to the internet, and they shouldn't be subjected to unnecessary emotional upheaval. Ugh. Bahamut's puny balls.

He dissolves the blade and offers Ravus a jaunty wave instead. "High Commander, I'm afraid I don't have the time to deal with your adorable little rebellion, if you could have it rescheduled to next week that would be just lovely."

"You-" Ravus starts, hackles rising, but it only takes a casual flick of his wrist, and the Oracle's boy slumps like a puppet with its strings snapped.

That ought to do it. Ardyn casually steps over Ravus' prone form, humming that incredibly catchy victory tune that's been stuck in his head for weeks- a veritable hit in the daemon's Billboard charts, that one, perhaps they've come to associate it with absolution. He none-too-gently prods Ravus with the toe of his boot and Ravus slides sideways, head thumping against the metal railing at an odd angle. The lad's going to get a crick in his neck sleeping like that. A terrible, _terrible_ crick.

A pain in the neck for his pain in the neck. Oh, how delightfully, poetically evil. Slightly cheered, Ardyn heads back to his Snagas.

-

And then the Chosen King is on his doorstep, separated from his Shield, his Hand and his armiger, and looking rather miffed. Ardyn hasn't seen fit to dismantle the Wallbreaker Wave, not when one of his great-grandnieces somehow induced an early labour by warping too much. He is _not_ about to take that risk with Noctis. This leads to Noctis flailing about and swearing like a sailor, when Ardyn recalls too late that in his haste to clean out the keep, he's swept all the extra daemons just outside their door, so the welcoming party for Noctis and his band of merry men is… a bit… much.

No matter, Noctis manages to tuck roll his way through the mess. Ardyn is reluctantly impressed, how is the brat not hurling yet? He's practically turning cartwheels and he's _pregnant_!

Thankfully, Noctis ends up in the somewhat safer confines of Gralea's imperial facility none the worse for wear, although clearly out of breath. Ardyn waits as his great-grandnephew pants and curses and pants some more, it goes on for about a minute- does pregnancy affect one's stamina? He'll have to search that up on the internet later. Assuming the servers are still operational. Although, he supposes it's just the extra weight around the middle that might throw someone off. But Noctis… Ardyn squints at the surveillance feed, hm… doesn't seem to be showing yet.

Oh, _now_ he's dry heaving. And he's taken to abusing a trash can.

Ardyn's been expecting some moping, some tears maybe, but he hasn't expected a tantrum. "Step away from the innocent trash can, Your Majesty. I assure you it has nothing to do with your current affliction."

"It's just the flu," Noctis snipes, not very convincingly.

"Flu? Your Majesty, I'm sure you mean the _morning sickness_ – very common symptom in the first trimester of your pregnancy. Do they not teach you these things in Lucis? What happened to all that extra government budget your father pumped into the education sector?"

"I'm not pregnant!"

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You-" Why is he arguing with the brat like an astral-forsaken five-year-old? Ardyn sighs, "Oh, you don't have to keep the bun in your oven under wraps, Shiva's told me in no certain terms that I'm to be mindful of your delicate condition."

"Bun in my- what?"

"The baby," Ardyn says slowly, "In your womb. Magical, astral-blessed womb."

Noctis is beginning to look rather pale again and Ardyn's about to politely suggest the brat visit the bloody toilet before he pukes all over Ardyn's shiny, clean floor when an awful, _brilliant_ thought strikes him. "They haven't told you."

"They- You're lying!" the brat accuses – which is rather rude, really – but Ardyn sees the flicker of uncertainty on his face and he knows Noctis is slowly joining the dots to reach an altogether impossible conclusion. Oh, this is amazingly dastardly. It truly is. The astrals are simply _masters_ at being callously cruel brutes. Ardyn's thought he's gotten the hang of their wicked ways, but no, no, the Six are just so effortlessly vile it's utterly spectacular.

"Why don't you put on that ring of yours, O Chosen King, and ask daddy dearest yourself?"

The brat makes a face like he's considering tossing the ring just to spite Ardyn, but his better sense eventually wins out, and he petulantly removes it from his pocket – oh such indolent disregard for millennia-old family heirlooms – and shoves it on his middle finger, pointedly at the camera.

He zones out for exactly eight minutes and thirty seven seconds.

After which, he's kicking the poor trash can with renewed vigour.

"You're not taking news of your pregnancy very well," Ardyn observes.

"I-" the brat starts, before doubling over and gagging with a hand over his mouth.

"Room to your right, first door on your left," Ardyn tells him and the brat actually listens for once.

He makes it to the toilet bowl just in time, regurgitating water and stomach acid. The brat ought to be grateful that Ardyn has had all the toilets cleaned spotless just prior to his grand entrance. But of course his pampered, cloistered great-grandnephew takes things like properly sterilised sanitation facilities for granted. And oh, fine, if Ardyn's giving him the benefit of the doubt, he may be a little too preoccupied with puking his guts out to marvel at the perfectly polished porcelain surface of that toilet bowl he's intimately making an acquaintance of.

"You know, this wouldn't have happened if you'd just kept your legs closed," Ardyn says as his pregnant great-grandnephew clings desperately onto the toilet bowl.

"Are you," the boy gags and coughs for several seconds before he continues, "slut-shaming me?"

Slut-shaming… he's unfamiliar with the terminology, but it's clearly a complex predicate of slut and shame, which makes it fairly self-explanatory. Noctis is a slut, and he's shaming Noctis – that seems accurate enough. He quite likes the word, actually. "Yes, I am."

"I'm going to kill you," the brat yells into the toilet bowl, "You tricked my dad, you hurt Luna, you stole our crystal, and now you're criticizing my sex life!"

"Oh astrals, do refrain from hysterics. It's bad for the baby."

-

Ardyn's supposed to be having the time of his life, watching the astral's pathetic Chosen scramble through Zegnautus' winding pathways like a rat in a maze, but instead, he's babysitting an increasingly testy, pregnant great-grandnephew, who's making excruciatingly slow progress because he's rushing to toilet every five minutes.

"I thought they'd invented this nifty thing called condoms. Apparently, you put it on your penis – or well, you have your lovers put it on theirs, since you're evidently not on the penetrative side of things – during intercourse and it prevents unplanned pregnancies. Also the transference of sexually transmitted diseases, a serious concern considering your obviously promiscuous lifestyle."

"Who's pregnant?"

"Why, you are," Ardyn sighs, "Is memory loss a symptom of your pregnancy or have the gods sent an idiot to fight for their cause?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Ardyn double-takes at the screen, belatedly realising that he has it switched to the wrong feed, so it's Noctis' paramours who are staring up at him through the cameras, from all the way on the other side of the keep, looking both mortified and aghast.

"Oh. Wrong number."

It's thoroughly satisfying to watch the confusion and horror dawn on their faces as they began to 'demand you tell us what that means, at once!' He's chortling to himself as he turns his attention back to Noctis.

"I may have accidentally let the coeurl out of the bag, so to speak – about your being pregnant, to your paramours."

"Paramours," the brat repeats, making a face.

"Ah, I forget you younglings speak in a completely different vernacular, I believe the term you use is 'main squeeze'."

The brat shudders and looks ready to vomit again. Oh, dear.

"The nearest toilet is down the corridor to your left," Ardyn supplies helpfully.

The brat glares at what he thinks is a camera, but is really just the automatic air freshener, and enunciates very pointedly, "Fuck you."

What an odd way of thanking someone. Honestly, the younglings' slang is growing more inconceivable by the day.

-

If anyone were to ask Ardyn what he considers the three most romantic words in all of Eos, his answer will likely be– no, not the entirely overused, plebeian 'I love you', he'll have to go with the much more unconventional, 'blast the astrals'. It perfectly encapsulates the passions of his vengeful, scourge-riddled heart. But at this precise moment, he'll make an exception and say, 'blast Gargantuas'. Which is only two words, but conveys his passions just as thoroughly.

He swears he's gotten rid of that Gargantua. Seriously, he has, right with that last group of axemen he shepherded out just the other day. But here it is, clumsily slashing at his pregnant great-grandnephew, who's now falling a hundred feet or so, oh good gods. Who in the name of Ifrit's burning asshole let that bloody thing in again? He'll find them and kill them, but they're probably already dead what with the chaos going on outside.

Nevertheless, this is an excellent time for Ravus to make an appearance. He knows he's kept the Oracle's boy alive for good reason. With a flex of his magic, he propels Ravus awake and up, while changing Noctis' trajectory through a stitch in time, just so that he'll land right… there. Right in Ravus' open arms, beautiful, he really couldn't have timed this better – only the force knocks Ravus off his feet, so they both end up skidding across the metal walkway for a few metres, before coming to a halt in an ungainly sprawl. Well.

At least Noctis appears to be properly cushioned by Ravus' fancy robes.

"Ravus?" Noctis groans, "You're hurt!"

Yes, clueless great-grandnephew mine, that's what happens when people fall from an indeterminate height, after which they're assailed by random kings falling from platforms of other indeterminate heights.

"My thanks," Ravus says stiffly as Noctis cracks an elixir over him.

Noctis shrugs – good gods, has no one taught this boy basic royal etiquette. "No problem. And, uh, thanks for catching me. And for keeping dad's sword safe."

"Now that we've all shaken hands and put the past behind us, perhaps we'd like to make haste back towards the elevator, preferably before Noctis requires another detour to the toilets," Ardyn suggests.

His great-grandnephew clambers up to his feet clumsily, oh dear astrals, he's not miscarrying, is he? Or throwing up? No? Ravus steadies the Chosen King with a firm hand on his elbow, just as Noctis waves an angry fist at… he's not sure what Noctis is waving his fist at, but it's about thirty degrees left to where the cameras are actually placed. "You said you'd cleared that floor of daemons, you liar!"

"I did," Ardyn sniffs, affronted, "I've no idea where that one came from. Stubborn thing. I just shooed it out two days ago!"

"I knew you can't be trusted."

Ravus looks at their Chosen King, and then at the cameras, before turning back to the fuming king at his side, and questioning, "Noctis?"

Ardyn rolls his eyes. "Oh, don't worry, he's the real Noctis, albeit an overly emotional Noctis due to the hormonal fluctuations that come with pregnancy."

"Will you stop announcing to everyone that I'm pregnant?" Noctis snaps, just as Ravus says, "I'm to be an uncle?"

Noctis gives him a look.

"Well, if you're pregnant, it stands to reason that the baby must be Lunafreya's as well."

"Tenebrae didn't invest much into sex education," Ardyn stage whispers over the speakers.

Noctis groans and makes a helpless sort of gesture at Ravus. "I'm a guy. Guys don't get pregnant."

"I know," it's Ravus' turn to sniff with affront, "But the gods will what they will, and my sister had been soliciting their blessings."

"Wow," Noctis says.

"Oh my," Ardyn says, "You're being remarkably level-headed about this, High Commander."

"I am of the blood of the Oracle."

Ardyn purses his lips, before adding gleefully, "Then you must know it is not the Oracle's child His Majesty bears."

"You have been unfaithful to my sister?" Ravus accuses.

Noctis glares at the not-camera, before making a face at his almost-brother-in-law. "Technically, yes, but wait, hear me out. I told Luna, before… before everything happened. And she encouraged me to-"

"Cheat on her?"

"I was going to say 'follow my heart', but if you want to put it that way… Well, yeah."

Ravus stares hard at him for several seconds, before sighing. "As much as I'd like to rake you over the coals, that does sound like my overly generous little sister. And you have always been rather naïve and impressionable-"

"Hey!"

"So it thus falls to me, your only living male family member, by marriage in spirit if not in name, to champion and reclaim your virtue from the knave who has so ignominiously trampled upon your trust and good faith outside the sanctity of holy matrimony."

"Knaves," Ardyn corrects, at his great-grandnephew's frustrated cry.

"Astrals," Ravus says, "I… am terribly sorry, Noctis."

"Why."

"For so many of your people to harbour designs on the purity of their monarch, and worse, to act upon those baser desires of the flesh, it is the gravest felony imaginable. Tell me who the riff-raff are and I shall deliver justice expeditiously."

"Uh, okay," Noctis stalls, "Yeah, um, you don't need to do that," Ravus raises a brow and Noctis quickly continues, "Because! Because… they, uh, the fall! Yeah, when Insomnia went down-"

"They ferried His Majesty away like the good paramours- ah, I mean, _crownsguard_ , they are, in a fancy automobile dearly deceased Regis relinquished, to embark on an incredibly licentious road trip en route to His Majesty's wedding in Altissia."

Ravus snarls. "You have been canoodling with Scientia and Amicitia!"

"And the blond one," Ardyn says.

"Prompto," Noctis corrects, before slapping a hand over his mouth.

"A commoner is mayhap not taught to be reverent of his king's chastity, considering the state of Lucis' public education, but a nobleman has no excuse for such insolence!"

"I like them insolent," Noctis petulantly mutters.

"And for the matter, _where_ are they?" Ravus huffs, "How are they to protect you, as is the duty of Shield and Hand, when they are not present and accountable?"

Ardyn takes that as his cue to hurry the duo along. They've spent far too much time arguing about the Chosen King's virginity – or lack thereof. But it's been so terribly amusing he'll have to forgive the delay in his timetable. With a few quick adjustments to several buttons and switches on the main console, he has a new path made available to the last scions of Lucis Caelum and Nox Fleuret. "Up the elevator, gentlemen."

-

Noctis and his paramours are reunited in a gloriously demonstrative, maudlin, _sentimental_ episode that'll thaw the weariest of hearts – save for ones ravaged by daemons over two thousand years and counting, or ones set on protecting the questionably-existent virtue of the Chosen King. There are hugs all round, and several misty-eyed confessions, maybe a tear or two, slightly wet laughter and quiet, discreet kisses which fail to escape Ravus' unrelenting eagle eye.

The Oracle's boy holds out for all of nine minutes and fifty three seconds, just enough time for them to infiltrate the throne room, shut down the Wallbreaker Wave with _extreme prejudice_ – honestly, great-grandnephew, what has that machine ever done to you – and trace their steps back to the hangar where Ardyn's originally planned a _grand confrontation_.

Seeing that Ravus is still alive and untainted by daemonic scourge, the confrontation has unfortunately been shelved indefinitely. Ardyn's mourning the death of his ingenious masterplan, when Ravus bursts out, "You… You three have impugned the King's virtue, and I am unable to hold my silence any longer."

Oh, this is… this is an acceptable substitute for the woeful, heart-rending battle that's supposed to take place. Ardyn leans forward in his seat and pulls up the feed across multiple screens. Now, if only he had some popcorn, but the downside to having devastated an entire city is the sad lack of easily available sweet treats.

There's a length of stunned silence, before Noctis' paramours rally around him.

"I assure you any act of intimacy between Noct, Gladiolus, Prompto and myself has only been completely consensual," Ignis Scientia says, slightly defensively.

"Yeah, he wanted his virtue impugned," adds Gladiolus Amicitia, to Ravus' mounting fury and his lovers' obvious exasperation.

"Not that there was any impugning at all, Gladio means," Prompto Argentum squeaks, "No impugning whatsoever."

But the damage is done, and Ravus points an armoured finger at them. "We will duel at dawn."

"I'm not sure if that'll be forthcoming anytime soon," Ignis mutters, and Ardyn finds himself unwillingly amused, ten points to Scientia. "What I mean to say is, Noctis' conduct is outside your purview, Prince Ravus, although your opinions have been duly noted."

"Outside my purview? He was to marry my sister, as his brother-in-law, I find it a mild concern that he is carrying another man's child!"

At that entirely explicit confirmation of Noctis' condition, the three fathers-to-be, defilers-of-monarchs, plunderers-of-royal-virginity gape at Ravus, then at their king's torso with varying looks of bewilderment and resignation.

"So Noct's really pregnant?" Gladiolus balks.

"I'm too young to be a dad!" Prompto wails.

"For once in my life, I'd like my suspicions proven wrong," Ignis says.

Noctis crosses his arms in front of his mildly swelling pecs – his great-grandnephew is going to start _lactating_ soon at this rate – and pins them with an impressively stony glare. "If you don't want the kid, I can take care of him myself."

"Aw, of course, we want the kid, buddy!" Prompto quickly reassures.

"Yeah, we'll help raise the sprog, what sort of fathers do you take us for?"

"I would love any child of yours, Noctis, no matter who his or her other parent may be."

Oh, astrals, Scientia. _No_. Ardyn quickly grabs for the mic, poised to say something witty, or scathing, he's not sure, just anything to distract the brat before… oh, Ramuh's inappropriately sexy beard, now he's done it. The brat's blubbering like how the little menace pressing on his bladder is going to blubber, whenever they deliver him to terrorize all of Eos. Noctis reaches out to grab whoever's standing closest to him – which turns out to be his Shield – and hiccups. "I love you guys so much."

"We love you too," Prompto replies.

Then they're _all_ holding him and petting him, with nary a care to the exceedingly chagrined Prince of Tenebrae not five metres away, or the impressively intellectual, illustrious Imperial Chancellor who's been guiding them _the entire time_ they've been in this bloody keep, watching them over the cameras – which is terribly insulting, Ardyn thinks.

Titan's shapely butt-cheeks, now there's _tongue_ – he doesn't need to see this – way too much tongue for a two-thousand-year-old great-granduncle, or well, any person remotely acquainted with any of them. Good gods, have some dignity, boys, you're the astrals' Chosen. "Gentlemen," Ardyn coughs into his mic, "You have an audience."

They're still kissing. Why. Why are they doing this? Gladiolus rucks Noctis' shirt up above his swollen nipples, and Prompto slides a hand in between their bodies to palm Noctis' arse. Ignis is placing reverent kisses along his king's jawline and down the line of his neck. Ardyn turns up the volume of his mic. "Boys, that's enough. We know that's how you made the baby."

Astrals, are they _unbuckling his belt_? And is Noctis smugly grinning at the cameras? He… _He is_. Oh, that infernal _brat_. Ardyn's absolutely had enough of this. He slams the heel of his palm down on the giant 'DO NOT TOUCH' button in the middle of the console, and all too suddenly, daemons flood into the hangar.

"Oops. Perhaps His Majesty should run along to the crystal while the rest of you clean up over here."

There is an expected amount of grumbling from Noctis and his paramours, although Ravus looks entirely grateful for the interruption. Clothes righted, his great-grandnephew speeds away to the hangar's exit and Ardyn feels an inexplicable twinge of worry at all that excess warping Noctis is using to get to the doors while he prepares to leave for the crystal's chambers. Well, then, as amusing as it's been, they _both_ have a long overdue date with destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be up two weeks ago, but life and Ardyn happened. It's twice as long as I expected it to be. [Tumblr.](http://hati-skoll.tumblr.com/post/173215150147/fuck-divine-intervention-23) As usual, kudos, comments, reblogs appreciated.


End file.
